FateKindling
by SabreLucatiel
Summary: As the First Flame fades and the Undead Curse hangs over the land, seven remarkable individuals are chosen to partake in a battle royal to decide the fate of the world. Partnered with the spirits of legendary heroes, the seven compete for the honour of linking the Fire.


Chapter 1: The Night of the Ritual

Perion pulled his cassock tight against the wind as he walked brusquely down the Exalted Road. On each side, the marble faces of saints and martyrs stared down on him, giving him the discomforting sense that each was judging him, probing him for any hint of sin. In one gloved hand he held a crisp, folded letter- a summons from Archdeacon Lucius, received a mere half-hour ago.

Ahead of him, sitting on an iron bench, was an elderly man clad in a flowing white robe. His crown rested in his lap. His eyes were closed, and a slight smile played upon his lips. Perion stopped a short distance from him and offered a polite cough. The man's eyes opened slowly as he turned to greet his visitor.

"Archdeacon," Perion announced flatly, "I received your summons."

"Ah, Perion, it is good to see you," Archdeacon Lucius' voice was warm and kindly, "you were always punctual."

He slowly rose to his feet, sighing with the effort, "Walk with me, won't you?"

Perion nodded and fell in step with the old man, whose gait was surprisingly quick for one of his age.

"Perion, I have long known you to be a devoted and pious member of our faith. Would you agree with this assessment?"

Perion's expression remained tranquil, his eyes fixed on the cobblestoned road, "Your words flatter me, Father."

Archdeacon Lucius chuckled, short and hearty, "Oh nonsense- I know you have no notion of pride. But it is true. I truly believe you would do anything for the church.

"Do you have a request for me, Father?"

"We'll get to that shortly. First, I must deliver some grave news." The Archdeacon's tone grew chilly, "The Darksign has been spotted in the hinterlands. The Undead walk among the living. Do you understand what this means?"

The great cathedral of Carim rose above them at the end of the Exalted Road, its limestone spires gleaming in the afternoon sun. An ascetic passed them, heading the other way. He stopped briefly and bowed to the Archdeacon before continuing.

"It means that the Flame is fading, Father. It means that we must soon begin the Undead hunts. I take it that this is your request?"

"Corralling Hollows? No, such menial tasks are beneath you. You have a greater calling, son. Are you aware of the ritual that must take place when the Flame begins to fade?"

Perion's right hand instinctively clutched his left. "You speak of the Vessel War."

"Indeed. As the First Flame sputters, it reaches out in search of worthy Souls to provide it fuel. Each time, seven Souls are chosen to compete for the privilege of linking the Fire. Additionally, the victor may have a single wish granted. Show me your hand."

Perion reluctantly removed his leather glove and displayed the back of his left hand. An ornate red sigil had manifested on the skin- a ring with two crescent shapes bordering it. The sigil had appeared the morning before, but Perion had chosen to conceal it with his glove.

"One of your brothers noticed it and reported it to us. That mark is known as a Command Seal, and it signifies your role as a competitor in the War."

They had reached the cathedral. The oak door stood open, betraying the dark interior of the ancient structure. A man dressed in the same raiment as Archdeacon Lucius lingered just inside.

"I am honoured to have been chosen, truly…" Perion stammered, but the Archdeacon silenced him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You are afraid, child. It is only natural. The Vessel War is treacherous for all involved. Yet as a disciple of the Way of White it is your duty to partake. I'm sure you will do so with zeal."

Archdeacon Klaus joined them at the door. Younger and more severe than Lucius, he regarded Perion with calculated indifference.

"The catalyst has been secured in the nave," Klaus announced, "I take it this is the candidate?"

"Thank-you, Klaus. And yes, this is Perion."

The two Archdeacons led Perion towards a second door, beyond which lay the nave."

"Of course, there is another aspect to the Vessel War- a rather significant one," Lucius continued, "I speak, of course, of the summoning of a Heroic Spirit.

"Each participant in the War must summon the spirit of a legendary hero from ages past, to fight for them and to secure their victory. The spirit becomes a Servant, and you, a Master. Your Servant will obey your every command thanks to that seal you bear, and will fight against the Servants of your enemies. They will be your single closest ally and your greatest asset."

Klaus, walking ahead of them, pushed open the door and guided Lucius and Perion into the nave. Rows of empty pews greeted them, separated by an aisle carpeted in deep crimson. At the foot of the altar a bizarre rune had been drawn in white chalk. A circle containing a hexagram, with esoteric symbols around the edge. Upon the altar was a folded sheet of some coarse, grey material.

Lucius strode over to the altar and tentatively picked up the sheet, displaying it with reverence to Perion. "The skin of a Primordial Serpent, believed to be the Kingseeker who served the Gods at the dawn of the Age of Fire. Traditionally, an artefact such as this can be used to attract particular Heroic Spirits. It is our hope that this skin will call to one Spirit in particular."

"May I ask which you intend to attract, Father?" Perion enquired, regarding the scaly matter in the Archdeacon's hands with a mix of revulsion and exaltation- neither of which was displayed on his face.

It was Klaus who responded, drifting over to stand by the rune. "The Undead warrior who succeeded the Lord of Light in the linking of the Fire. It is said that the Kingseeker offered them guidance on their pilgrimage, so they should respond to this offering."

Lucius placed the skin back on the altar and regarded Perion. "The ritual shall begin after dusk. We will give you some time to memorise the incantation."

* * *

Rena gazed into the twisting amber flames of the campfire and sighed deeply. Kneeling upon the leaf-strewn earth of the forest with her sheathed katana in her lap, she offered a silent prayer for her family, back in the East. "Father, sister, you need only wait a little longer. All will be well soon."

The wood was alive with nocturnal sounds: the shrill cry of a fox; the chattering of crickets; the rapid fluttering of wings. Rena listened intently for the snapping of a branch or the rustling of leaves.

"Lady Rena," a voice in her ear. Naru had arrived silently, as usual. Rena glanced up at the black-clad figure standing by her side.

"I'm to assume you found it?"

"I did, my lady." The movements of his mouth were concealed by his cloth mask, which covered the entire lower half of his face. He reached into one of his many hidden pockets and produced an iron arrowhead. Kneeling, he offered it to Rena, who accepted it gratefully.

"The tip of an arrow fired by Evlana, the patron Goddess of hunters," Naru explained, "I found it in the private collection of a nobleman in the nearby town, just where that soldier told us it would be."

"Thank-you for this, loyal Naru," Rena said affectionately, "with this I will summon the greatest Servant of the Archer class. With a Goddess watching over me, my victory is assured."

"Best to avoid falling into complacency, Lady Rena," Naru intoned, "No doubt the other Masters will have powerful Servants of their own."

"Best watch your tongue," Rena snapped, "have you ever known me to rest on my laurels before they have been earned?"

Naru bowed low, "I apologise for my harsh words, my lady. I trust in your prowess as a warrior and as a strategist."

Rena stood and walked to a patch of naked earth, where she had etched the summoning circle. She carefully placed the arrowhead beside the circle and walked back three paces, to where she could see the entire summoning array.

"You're ready to begin the ritual?" Naru asked.

Rena thought for a minute. She had memorised the incantation. She had drawn out the circle. Now she had her offering. Everything was in order.

"Not yet. I need time to prepare."

* * *

The snow fell thick upon the ancestral home of House Kalian on the night of Anaziel's return.

In his memories, the Azure Keep was a place of hope and warmth, alive with music and laughter. It had surely been that way in his youth, but as he approached his heart sank to see what had become of it. The great walls had begun to crumble. The roof of the eastern tower had caved in. The windows were dark, hinting at the sorry state of the interior. One of Mirrah's most noble houses, neglected and forlorn.

His horse carried him through the once-familiar gate, where a sullen stable hand awaited to help him down. A guard in mismatched armour heaved the moulding wooden door open and offered a wooden salute.

Anaziel marched into the gloomy main hall, casting aside his battered greatcoat and leaving it upon the cold stone floor. The steward, Wayland, hurried to greet him.

"Lord Anaziel, you cannot imagine what a relief it is to see…"

"Where are mother and father?"

Wayland recoiled, perturbed by Anaziel's barbed tone, "In the solar, I would imagine. That's where they spend most of their- ah! You must be famished! Please, allow me to prepare you some supper."

"There will be no need, Wayland," Anaziel assured him. The steward began to protest but Anaziel ignored him. His feet bore him up the curved staircase and towards the western tower, where his parents kept their quarters. His footsteps echoed around him, the only sounds in the silent castle. His breath was visible before him, and the cold cut through his jerkin, making him wish he had kept his coat.

He finally came to the door of his parent's solar. He reached for the black iron door handle, hesitated, collected himself, and pushed the door open.

By the light of the fire which burned in the hearth, the room was as dismal a sight as the rest of the castle. The floor was strewn with books. The ornate rug was threadbare and stained. A portrait had fallen from the wall and lay face-down on the floor. Spiders had made their homes in the corners and every surface was coated in a thick layer of dust. The balcony door stood ajar, and the harsh winter winds played viciously with the tattered drapes.

Lady Emilia Kalian sat on her favourite chaise, a book held in her trembling hands. Her back was to the door. She wore a deep-blue dress made by Anaziel's sister many years past. The rims of her eyes were red, yet free of tears.

Lord Rowan Kalian stood on the balcony, clad in a plain tunic and breeches. He supported himself against the rail, seemingly impervious to the cold.

At the sound of the door opening, both of Anaziel's parents turned to face their son. No doubt they were shocked to see his gaunt, unshaven visage. His lank copper hair hung past his shoulders, his jaw coated in thick stubble. For a moment he feared that even his own parents did not recognise him, but his doubts were eased when his father spoke.

"Son," Lord Rowan said in a hoarse voice unaccustomed to use, "welcome home."

Anaziel pulled his father into an embrace, feeling his narrow body tremble with silent tears. A flood of guilt washed over him as he recalled his six-year absence. Releasing his father, he turned to his mother, who had dropped her book. Anaziel bent down, retrieved it and placed it on the chaise beside her, before kissing her on her cheek. Lady Emilia said nothing, but her thin lips curled into a smile.

"I should have been here." Anaziel's voice was thick and shaky, "Maybe this wouldn't have happened."

Lord Rowan shook his head mournfully, "There was nothing to be done. Our men fought and lost. We're fortunate Lord Morton spared us, and let us keep our home. We cannot dwell on it."

"So we should roll over and allow the other houses to tear our lands apart? You can't just… stay here in your solar until you die."

"We have fewer than a hundred soldiers. The surrounding estates have been occupied. It's the dead of winter. I'm sorry, Ana, but we have no hope." Lady Emilia's voice was considerably more firm than her husband's, but still tinged with despair.

"There is hope."

"Anaziel, I understand how you feel, but…"

"No, you need to listen to me." Anaziel felt the eyes of his parents upon him, He took a deep breath. He removed his black leather glove and held his left hand out, showing them the red mark. His father grit his teeth, his mother covered her mouth as her eyes widened.

"I have been chosen to fight in the Vessel War." He announced, struggling to keep his tone even, "If I win, I will use my wish to vanquish the other houses. Kalian will rise again, and we will once more have the respect of Mirrah."

"Son, you know what happens to the victor…"

"I know. I'm not afraid, mother. I'll give my own life for this house if I have to."

Anaziel unclasped his satchel and reached inside. He pulled out a silver mask, blemished with patches of brown rust. The mask depicted a man with a distinctively pointed beard and a pronounced nose. Anaziel had found it resting against a solitary headstone near Mirrah's western border, untouched for many years.

"I'll use this as a catalyst in the summoning. Surely one of Mirrah's greatest heroes will understand my wish."

Anaziel locked eyes with his father. It was clear that the aged lord wanted to protest, but after a while he sighed and hung his head. "If the Flame has chosen you, I suppose you have no choice. I'm proud that my son would go to such great lengths for his family."

Anaziel looked to his mother. She conveyed her assent with a nod, but said nothing.

"I'll prepare the summoning circle in the foyer. The ritual must take place tonight." Anaziel left his parents alone in the room, and once the door closed he heard one of them begin to cry.

* * *

"So, Mella, do you understand now?"

Mella stared blankly at the wizened sorcerer. "I- I think so. The mark means that I have been chosen to take part in the Vessel War. I must summon a Heroic Spirit to be my Servant. If I win, I will link the Fire and have one wish granted."

Professor Lumeon clasped his hands together and beamed. "Capital! Always such a bright young girl. Once you have learned the incantation we will get started."

Mella leaned forward in her seat, and glanced around the room- a cramped office stuffed with leather-bound tomes and assorted magical instruments. "Can I ask you something, professor?"

"Absolutely! The better you understand this whole affair, the higher your chance of success!"

"Why was I chosen? I mean, does the Flame have some sort of selection process?"

Professor Lumeon scratched his chin and looked up at the domed ceiling, "We sorcerers have been trying to answer that exact question since the very first Vessel War. The predominant theory is that the Flame selects those with large Souls and strong wills. It has also been debated that it takes into account the wants of its candidates. Put simply, it chooses those who would most greatly benefit from the single wish it grants the victor." Lumeon fixed Mella with a searching stare, "No doubt you have a desire you want to see fulfilled."

Mella's eyes dropped to her lap. "I don't think so." She mumbled.

"Oh? Well, the Flame must have a reason for picking you out." Professor Lumeon rose to his feet, supporting himself with the arms of his seat, and walked around Mella to the door. "Come now. The preparations should be finished by now."

The professor guided Mella through the candle-lit halls of the school, until they arrived at the Crystal Chamber. Each prismatic surface gleamed in hues of every colour, and made it impossible to determine just how large the room truly was. A single candle burned in the centre of the room, reflected by each of its incalculably numbered walls. The only surface not carved from crystal was the floor, polished marble, upon which had been drawn a hexagram inside a circle. Once inside, they were greeted by three senior faculty members with kindly eyes and warm smiles.

"Welcome, Mella," spoke one, an extraordinarily beautiful sorcerer with chiselled features, clad in a sky-blue gown, "I think I speak for everyone here when I say how proud I am that one of our students was selected for the Vessel War."

"Thank-you, Grand Sorcerer Wyald," Mella tried to make eye contact with the graceful man towering over her, but found that she could not, "the pleasure… um… I mean… the honour is all mine."

Grand Sorcerer Wyald beamed as he extended a slender hand. In his palm was a golden ring set with four gemstones, each a different colour. "We've had this ring in our collection for quite a long time," he explained calmly, "it is rather like the speckled stoneplate rings favoured by knights, although it differs in design. Fashioned in Olaphis, once a hub of magical knowledge. You will use this to call upon your Servant."

Mella graciously took the ring. She held it up to admire the glistening jewels, coloured red, yellow, blue and violet. She could feel the potency of the magic contained within the small metal band. "Who will I be summoning?"

"We hope to call upon Straid, the legendary sorcerer of Olaphis. They say he was one of the greatest magic users to ever live, so he will surely prove a worthy Servant."

Another sorcerer handed Mella a single piece of parchment. Mella had to squint to read the neat, miniscule text inscribed upon it. "Memorise that incantation. When the time comes to begin the summoning you will need to recite it with conviction. I'd recommend you start reading now- we will begin the summoning shortly."

* * *

"Heed my words. My will creates your body.

And your sword creates my destiny.

If you heed the Flame's call, and obey my will and reason, then answer my summoning.

I hereby swear that I shall be all the good in the world, and that I shall defeat all evil in the world.

Origin of Souls and Essence of Light, come forth from this circle of binding, First Flame."

The Command Seal burned red on Perion's hand as he stood, arm outstretched, over the rune. As he spoke the final words, an eruption of energy burst from the circle, and the nave was suddenly awash with ethereal blue light. Archdeacons Lucius and Klaus looked on as a dark figure emerged from the rune. Clad in a midnight black dress, face obscured by a silver, beaked mask, she stood with perfect posture and grace.

The azure light faded. Perion stepped forward so that he stood only a foot from the masked woman. "I am Perion, your Master. Am I to believe that you are the successor of Lord Gwyn?"

The woman chuckled; a low, ominous sound. "I fear I may disappoint you. I am Yuria of the Sable Church, summoned into the Assassin class." She stepped gracefully over to the altar and touched the folded snakeskin, "I was lured here by the hide of my former master, the Primordial Serpent Kaathe."

Lucius stepped forth with an expression of mixed bewilderment and rage, "There has been a mistake! You were not the one we meant to summon."

"And yet I am the one who answered. A pawn of the Gods is not who I would select as a Master were _I _given the choice, but it seems I am stuck with you."

Klaus opened his mouth to protest, but Perion raised a hand to silence him. "Do you swear that you will do whatever it takes to ensure my victory in the Vessel War?"

"It is my duty as a Servant to fulfil the wishes of my Master," Came the reply, in a voice as calm as the unbroken surface of a lake, "I pledge my blade to you, and swear that the other Servants and their Masters will fall before me."

* * *

"Origin of Souls and Essence of Light, come forth from this circle of binding, First Flame."

The figure that emerged from the circle was dressed in the leather armour of a hunter. She wore a broad-brimmed hat, with a peak that partially obscured her face. A simple black bow was slung across her back, a quiver of arrows at her hip.

Rena looked the archer up and down. She was short of stature and noticeably lithe. Blonde hair cascaded from beneath her hat. She tilted her head to peer under its brim, revealing a beautiful, yet severe, face.

"I am your Master, Lady Rena of the Taka clan. Are you Evlana, the Goddess of the Hunt?"

"I have become known by this name in recent times, but in my lifetime I was called Pharis, hunter of the Darkroot Wood."

"So your no Goddess, but a mere human?" Naru's silky voice came from somewhere behind Rena. Naru had always been uncannily skilled at hiding, even in plain sight, yet when Pharis turned her head she looked right at him. "I was never a Goddess, and honestly I have no clue how I came to be known as one. I am, however, one of the greatest archers to ever live."

"I pray your confidence is warranted," Rena said coldly, "The War begins two days from now, and before then I expect you to prove your value to me."

* * *

"Origin of Souls and Essence of Light, come forth from this circle of binding, First Flame."

Every surface of the Crystal Chamber reflected the blue light that emanated from the summoning rune as Mella completed the incantation, forcing the four elder sorcerers to shield their eyes.

When the light faded, a tall figure stood before Mella. He wore a black, cowled robe and a golden half-mask. In his hands he gripped a staff topped with a pale blue crystal. Upon seeing Mella's diminutive figure and trembling lips, he burst into a deep, raucous laugh.

"So, you are to be the Master of Straid?"

"Y-yes, I am M-Mella, student of Vin-Vinheim. I'm very p-pleased to meet…"

Straid slammed the bottom of his staff against the floor, and the sound echoed through the cavernous chamber. "Cease your stammering! The one who calls me Servant must speak with conviction and authority! Now, start again. Look me in the eye and speak clearly."

Mella straightened her back and fought to keep her quivering at bay. She forced her eyes to meet Straid's and, with clenched fists, she started her introduction anew.

"My name is Mella, novice sorcerer of the Vinheim Dragon School. You are Straid, my Servant. You will ensure my victory in the Vessel War, as is your duty."

Straid laughed even more loudly than before. "That's more like it! I hope you are prepared to witness the legendary sorceries of Straid of Olaphis!"

* * *

Anaziel stood over the summoning sigil, left hand raised before him. He glanced at the mask on the ground beside the circle, and then at his parents across the room. Lord Rowan gave him a curt nod. Lady Emilia smiled sadly. Steeling his nerves, Anaziel began the ritual.

"Heed my words. My will creates your body.

And your sword creates my destiny.

If you heed the Flame's call, and obey my will and reason, then answer my summoning.

I hereby swear that I shall be all the good in the world, and that I shall defeat all evil in the world.

Origin of Souls and Essence of Light, come forth from this circle of binding, First Flame."

The symbol on his left hand flashed red as blue light poured from the circle. Lord Rowan held his wife tight, squinting against the light.

When the light faded, a figure stood in the centre of the circle. She wore a feathered cap and the navy-blue vest of one of the knights of old. An abnormally large sword clung to her back, and on her arm was affixed a round iron shield. A long, blonde braid hung over her shoulder.

The knight stepped away from the circle and, bending down, picked up the rusted mask which lay on the ground. Her eyes fell upon Anaziel.

"My name is Lucatiel, Servant of the Sabre class. I ask you, are you my Master?"


End file.
